


Coloring Outside the Lines

by PhenixFleur



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Coloring, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Mabel is a sweetheart, Social Boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:37:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhenixFleur/pseuds/PhenixFleur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mabel and Pacifica spend an afternoon coloring dinosaurs, and Pacifica reflects on a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coloring Outside the Lines

"Are you serious?" 

Mabel looks up at me with her characteristic cheesy grin; in her hands are a couple of children's coloring books and a large pack of crayons. The brand name kind with 120 colors and a fairly useless sharpener. I suppose that's living it up for the Pines family. 

I roll my eyes, folding my arms across my chest. "What are you, Braces? Five?"

At this point the insult has become less of an accusation of unattractiveness and more a term of endearment. The braces are still there, but in the past two years of being frenemies (admittedly the scale's been steadily sliding towards 'friends' although there's no way in hell I'm telling her that) Mabel's grown a little taller and her wild mess of fluffy brown hair has lengthened a bit. If she'd just let my stylist give her a makeover and replace every sweater in her closet she'd come a little closer to rivaling  _me_ instead of the quirky cuteness that would annoying in anyone else. 

As if to prove my point, Mabel presses her hands against her heart, closing her eyes reverently. "My inner child is a being that pays the passage of time no heed."

See what I mean?

I look down at the stack of coloring books, hiding my slight smile. "Sometimes I can't tell if you're naturally this weird or actually putting effort into it," I grumble with a feigned sigh of irritation. 

"Oh come on!" Mabel, who doesn't understand the concept of personal space and probably never will, leans over the patio table and clasps one of my hands in hers. Her nails are coated with flaking pink glitter polish, and she could use a manicure, but her hand is warm, and so is her smile. "Pacifica, it's fun! You look like you could use a break."

She isn't wrong. Recently my parents have taken it up a notch, considering I'll be heading off to college at whatever Ivy League school I choose for a few years before going to study abroad in Europe. The push to rack up extracurriculars, leadership roles, and start picking over sorority information (because if Pacifica Northwest wants in, she gets in) has intensified alongside my own obligations, and if I'm honest it's beginning to wear on me. A little eyeshadow and regular facial regimen goes a long way, but as usual Mabel Pines sees right through me. Those eager eyes meet mine, and I have to look away.

"It  _is_  a bit tiring at times, being this amazing at basically everything," I say haughtily, tossing my silky blonde hair over my shoulder. 

Mabel grins. "And do those skills include coloring dinosaurs?"

I flush, yanking my hand back. "Of course. Do you even know how many fine art classes I've taken?" This isn't a lie. 

"Did any of them involve  _Crayola_?" Mabel teases, holding up the box of crayons. I don't dignify that question with an answer, rolling my eyes again. 

"Thought so!" Mabel looks at me intently, with that genuine expression of amiable concern. "Please? You'll like it, I promise."

This is why I keep the scale between friends and frenemies level instead of letting the weight cascade towards friends and right off the chart. Of all of my so-called friends and acquaintances and social contacts, Mabel's perhaps the only person I can't say no to. Ever since that fated golf match, she's steadily made attempts to befriend me, at first only during her summers working at her grand uncle's tourist trap, and then occasionally during the school year in the form of nonsensical emails and texts and packages containing sweaters on my birthday and Christmas.  

I haven't worn any of them, but they're folded neatly in my armoire, and sometimes when the stress blossoms in my head and I feel like screaming at my parents I pull the drawer out and run my hand over her surprisingly neat stitches.

Mabel Pines might be my only  _real_  friend, and I can't stand it. 

"Fine," I respond, in a huff, although we both know I was going to do it anyway. Mabel beams, handing me a thick coloring book with DinoMania printed on it, and after choosing one for herself we begin coloring in silence. 

I've never used a coloring book before. 

No one's lying when they imply that the rich live in a completely different world than everyone else. Even with its excesses and moral corruption it's highly structured. People like me don't color in cheap coloring books as children. We play with imported French dolls and yell at the pastry chef for petit-fours. We don't visit the public swimming pool in summer (perish the thought), we spend weeks at a time at lush beach resorts in places where winter doesn't exist. 

So much of Mabel's world is foreign to me, and I'm not sure if it's unbearable because it's lower class or because it's an unknown. 

I decide on a Velociraptor emerging from what appears to be a bush. It's a crude drawing, but at least the lines are well-defined and visible. I choose a leaf-green for the vegetation, and an unassuming sierra brown for the dinosaur itself. The crayons are no Prismacolor pastels, but they're not bad, and I find myself actually feeling a little better as I trace the inside of the figures with the base color before attempting shading. It's mindless, and effortless; there is no competition, no one to impress, no one to kick dirt on when no one's looking. It's just Mabel and I, seated on my patio, coloring dinosaurs printed on cheap paper. 

I glance over at Mabel, hunched over her book with her brow furrowed in concentration. Her picture is nowhere as neat as mine, between colors straying out of the lines at random and additions to her Pterodactyl, who appears to be wearing a pair of aviator shades. 

"There are lines for a reason," I remark. 

Mabel pauses, looking up at me. "I know," she says, cheerful, "But why stay inside them? I could have a normal Pterodactyl, or I could have a Pterodactyl that keeps up with the current trends of the Mesozoic Era. You can do so much more if you don't pay attention to the lines."

My heart does something confusing that I don't understand. 

There are lines between us, too, but times like this I consider letting Mabel take my hand and drag me over onto her side with little resistance. 

"Hey, that's really good!" Mabel grabs my coloring book, staring at my handiwork with awe. "How did you manage to do that kind of shading with just crayons?"

I don't know why the praise makes my heart do whatever it did before yet again, and hide my discomfort with my usual bravado. "Amazing at everything, remember?"

Mabel returns the book to me, obviously impressed. "I guess you really are," and there's no malice or jealousy in her voice. If this was a competition, I'd have won, in name, but she's the victor in spirit. 

"...I like yours," I mutter, keeping my gaze trained on a lush imported fern a few feet behind her. "It's...unique." These pauses, this hesitation is so unlike me, and so are the words, but I continue to speak anyway, standing decisively on the line between my world and hers. I can't help but think that my grass is just AstroTurf. "And weird. It's...you." 

Mabel's eyes are soft; she flushes a little at the compliment. "Thanks." 

The moment lingers, but instead of the awkwardness of having nothing to say it feels as if many words are being exchanged. 

And then the scene is broken by the incessant chime of Mabel's phone. She reaches for it, flipping it over and gasping. "Oops! Soos'll be here in a minute." She collects her coloring books and crayons, dumping all of it into her backpack unceremoniously. "Sorry, Pacifica. Wendy's out sick so I'm covering her shift." 

"Yeah," I say, because I can't think of anything else to say.  _I wish you didn't have to go_  is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back where it belongs. No way in hell.

Mabel pauses, looking thoughtful for a minute; she pulls out one of the coloring books and tears a page out, handing it to me, and then she's off, her sneakers (the kiddie kind that light up) flashing with every step. "I'll see you later," she calls over her shoulder. 

"Next time we're doing something normal!" I yell back; her only response is laughter that echoes along the corridor in her wake.

The patio is awfully silent with her gone, the sun ducking behind the clouds and a light breeze raising goosebumps along my arms. 

The paper in my hands, a Pterodactyl wearing a pair of aviator shades, is still warm. 

Later on, I tuck the picture into the mirror of my vanity table. 

I don't care if my parents or friends see it.

I can color outside of the lines, too. 


End file.
